And then the sky had suddenly opened up and poured out a kind of rain he was sure hadn't been seen since the Flood.
He'd ignored the deluge and pressed on. A close encounter with some sheep and another with a pair of angry bicyclists had left him seriously doubting his skills.
Thank goodness the most dangerous stretch of road he would have to negotiate in the near future would be the one between Megan's inn and his castle—and he suspected the morning light might reveal the distance to be quite manageable on foot. Even if he got soaked to the skin, it would be better than creaming any of the natives before he could introduce himself.
He peeled himself out of the car, retrieved the luggage necessary for the next twenty-four hours from the trunk, then trudged doggedly toward the front door. He let himself inside the house, grateful to be out of the inclement weather. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the place was indeed as old as Megan had said it was. Well, he'd have a good look later. At the moment, all he wanted was a hot shower and a bed. It didn't have to be a comfortable bed. It didn't even have to be a flat bed. He wasn't even sure he needed a mattress. He'd slept in enough strange and/or precarious places over the years that the amenities really didn't matter. He just needed someplace to crash.
He shut the door with his knee, then turned around to face the entry hall. His immediate impression was of age and patterned wallpaper. Then he blinked. There was the registration desk, obviously. A woman of substantial stature and soldierlike carriage stood at attention. But that wasn't what was so startling.
To her left, leaning against some kind of sideboard, was an older gentlemen in full Scottish dress. Plaid, sword, sporran, snowy white shirt with no frills, and an enormous silver brooch pinning the plaid to his shoulder. The man's face was rugged, but a twinkle in his eye spoke of good humor.
Thomas gaped at him. The man folded his arms over his chest and looked back just as boldly. Thomas dropped his bag, rubbed his eyes, then blinked away the residual fuzziness.
Now the man was gone.
Thomas paused to consider. Jet lag? He didn't think so.
He looked at the woman behind the desk.
"Who was that—" he began, then shut his mouth. Yes, that would certainly make a good impression. Hi, I'm your guest, and wasn't that a ghost I just saw leaning against one of your antiques?
Maybe he was just more tired than he thought. Shower. Bed. Or maybe just bed. He could clean up later. Unconsciousness was probably the safest place for him right now.
He grabbed the strap of his bag and stumbled toward the desk.
"I have a reservation," he managed.
"Yer name?" the woman asked crisply.
"Thomas," he said. "Thomas McKinnon."
"We've been expecting ye," she said. She thrust a sheet at him and slapped a pen down next to it. "Sign in. I'm Mrs. Pruitt. I'm in charge whilst Lord and Lady Blythwood are in London."
Ah, Lady Blythwood. That was his sister. She'd married Gideon de Piaget, Lord Blythwood. Thomas shook his head wryly. Megan, an honest-to-goodness titled person. She really should write all those people who had fired her over the years and let them know. It would have been very satisfying.
Then Thomas frowned. Something was not right. He looked at Mrs. Pruitt and realized that she was Mrs. Pruitt. When Megan had first come to the inn, the proprietress had been a Mrs. Pruitt, but that Mrs. Pruitt had decamped for some unknown reason, signing the title over to Megan on her way out the door. Had that Mrs. Pruitt returned? Or had another come to take her place? Thomas looked at the woman, wondering if his bafflement was because of the time change or if hugging his knees to his chest across the Atlantic had cut off important blood flow to his brain.
"You're ..." he trailed off.
"Mrs. Pruitt," she said firmly.
"But," he said, "I thought Mrs. Pruitt had gone."
"My sister," Mrs. Pruitt announced.
He frowned. "Your sister? Don't you mean sister-in-law?"
"I don't," Mrs. Pruitt said.
"But," he said, wondering if arguing with a woman who held her pen like a sword was wise given the torrential downpour outside and the potential for finding himself once again in it, "you have the same last name."
"We married brothers," Mrs. Pruitt said, looking as if her previous estimation of his intelligence had been a sore disappointment to her.
"And your husband..."
"Dead, like the other one," she said with pursed lips. "Weak constitutions."
Given the apparently robust constitution of the woman facing him, Thomas could well understand why she found that so objectionable. .
"Should have wed me a Highlander," she said, lowering her voice and stealing a glance or two around the hallway. "Now there are lads worth the effort."
Thomas found himself with absolutely no desire to investigate further Mrs. Pruitt's matrimonial regrets and preferences, especially since she seemed to be looking around purposefully for someone Thomas was just certain wasn't there.
"Sleep," he slurred. "I'm starting to hallucinate."
"Hmmm," Mrs. Pruitt said, with a disapproving glance. "Well, best hie yourself up the stairs. Don't want any bodies littering me entryway."
Thomas made one final stab at getting an explanation. "But your sister—"
"Deserted her post without a backward glance," Mrs. Pruitt said with a disgusted shake of her head.
"And you don't regret—"
"That she left the place to yer sister Lady Blythwood, and not me? Not at all. I've full command of the area without concerning myself with funding the operation."
Thomas suspected the British Navy would have been proud to call this woman one of its own. He was ready to surrender already, and he was sure he hadn't forced her to pull out her big guns yet.
"Besides," she said, lowering her voice and looking about with another purposeful, if not covert, glance or two,
